


All A Little In Love

by crayolaparadise



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Adam plays lead guitar, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, Barista Blue kicks ass, Battle of the Bands, Bluesey - Freeform, Cheng is manager, Classical Music, Epic Friendship, F/M, Gansey loves all of them, Gansey sings, Kavinsky Dream Pack rival bands, Leather pants and classical music and rock band pynch, M/M, Noah plays bass, POV Adam Parrish, POV Blue Sargent, POV Ronan Lynch, Pynch Week, Ronan Lynch & Blue Sargent Friendship, Ronan Lynch Being an Asshole, Ronan Lynch Loves Adam Parrish, Ronan dreams in music, Ronan is drummer, pynch - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayolaparadise/pseuds/crayolaparadise
Summary: Blue’s just trying to make ends meet with her job as a barista at the Page of Cups cafe when a group of boys crash in demanding lattes. She gets pulled into the rockstar whirlwind of the band Cabeswater on tour. Will the group be able to navigate the pressure and temptations of life on the road?Adding to the fun: Gansey sports a man bun, Ronan wears leather pants, Adam actually sleeps once, Noah runs their social media and...They’re all a little in love with each other.
Relationships: Joseph Kavinsky/Ronan Lynch, Noah Czerny/Blue Sargent, Richard Gansey III/Blue Sargent, Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 20
Kudos: 68
Collections: TRC/ CDTH Prompt Week 2020, The Raven Cycle, because i'm adam and ronan trash





	1. Scribbled Names

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Pynch Week 2020 prompts, this fic will have at least one chapter for each prompt! But I couldn’t resist starting it now. The image of Gansey in a man bun and leather pants, staring at Blue across a counter as she wipes foam from Noah’s ridiculous drink order on her green apron just would not let my brain sleep.

Rich white froth bubbled up beneath the stream frothier, creeping inch by inch up the metal cup Blue cradled. The  _ Page of Cups  _ cafe thrummed with overly caffeinated patrons as rich and white as the latte she handed over to a bronzed goddess in four inch heels. 

She hated work. Every person that walked in through the doors screamed money to burn. This was central L.A.; she knew what to expect, but the hour bus ride from her home to this neighborhood wasn’t enough space to absorb the jarring differences. She felt like Alice in Wonderland everyday when her shift started at 4 A.M. and the tucked and trimmed and lifted faces started to trickle in. Maybe Alice In Chains was a better description. 

Blue huffed, blowing up at the stray fringe obnoxiously tickling the side of her eye. Her manager was going to make her wear a hair net for sure if she couldn’t keep it contained. She reached in her green apron pocket and pulled out a bright orange clip, shoving it haphazardly into her hair, just managing to snare the wayward curl. 

“Iced macchiato, triple foam, hold the espresso,” said a customer. 

Blue cocked her eyebrow, looking over at the customer hovering near the cash register. It was a pale wispy-haired boy, with eyeliner or something smudged on his cheek and piercings running all up his left ear. “So— foam over ice?” 

He grinned at Blue, shrugging. 

The door to the cafe slammed open, flung back so hard it smashed into the wall, shaking glass and dislodging the little bell atop it. The bell fell to the ground with a strangled clang. 

“Told you I could,” a sharp boy said — all angles and tattoos and teeth, black hair shaved tight around the hard line of his skull — as he stepped over the bell and strode to smudgy’s side, booted footfalls like strikes of iron.

“Noah. Did you get my drink?” he said.

A third boy followed him in, broad shouldered with wavy brown hair pulled back into a messy bun. He stepped over the bell, his eyes scanning her space behind the register, something in the set of his shoulders too easy for a customer. More like an owner. 

“Ronan,” he said in a voice matching the angle of his shoulders— firm and confident, like he was telling, not asking for your campaign support. “A bet against yourself is no bet at all. I’m sorry,” Presidential Man Bun was speaking to Blue now. “Add the door to our tab.” He dropped the request like there should be a button on the cash register screen labeled  _ Front Door. _

Blue wiped her hands on her apron and walked over. Her hair sprang loose again; she jammed it back under the clip with her thumb. The trio crowded the cash register though none of them were standing particularly close. It felt dense, wired, like if one of them moved the place would erupt into a mosh pit. The bell jingled again. Blue looked around the sharp boy’s shoulders and saw a fourth boy had picked it up off the floor. 

He was the only one not wearing leather, his ripped and faded jeans looking like they’d genuinely earned their rips from bending, scuffing knees not a slice of a seamstress’s shears. He held the bell out to Blue, their eyes meeting. 

“Sorry,” he said, his accent softer than the others, a roundness to his words that warred with the sunken angles in his cheeks. Blue nodded at him, swiping the bell. His eyes rested on her. Odd eyes, maybe a little too far apart. Hungry eyes. 

“Fuck’s sake,” the sharp one—  _ Ronan _ — said. “Triple mocha frapp.” 

Blue’s eyes widened at him. She scribbled the notes on a plastic cup, peering at Ronan over the rim. He was wearing a tight black sleeveless shirt and leather pants, almost matching Man Bun except for the pile of dark leather bracelets crisscrossing the pale skin of his right arm. Man Bun had a jet black watch the size of a coffee mug and probably expensive enough to buy a  _ Page of Cups  _ franchise. Ronan locked eyes with her and bared his teeth. She wrinkled her nose and seriously considered spitting in his coffee, but didn’t want to die. 

“An americano please,” the President said. “Adam?” 

“Just black, regular.” Scuffed jeans was Adam. He was rifling in his pocket, probably for change, but Man Bun had a black credit card already shoved in her reader. A pucker appeared between Scuffed—  _ Adam’s —  _ eyebrows.

Blue didn’t know why it mattered that she knew their names, but it did. She made herself write them on their cups. 

_ Ronan  _

_ Noah _

_ Adam  _

She looked at Man Bun. 

“Name?” she said. 

He shoved his wallet in his back pants pocket. “Gansey,” he said. 

Blue cocked her eyebrow at the odd name. 

“That’s all there is,” he said, smiling at her. 


	2. The Suit

The cafe was busy. Skinny-double-whip-with-an-extra-shots flying off the shiny black counter as one fake smile eaten by a phone screen after another filed passed Blue. At least she had entertainment today; the four boys had painted themselves onto the cluster of pleather chairs in the corner. Noah floated behind the large chair, poking absently at Gansey’s man bun. He caught her eye and waved. As much as she hated being caught watching, she couldn’t resist the whipped-cream smudged smile and threw a small wave back. 

Gansey was hunched forward, scribbling furiously in something in his lap. Adam sat in a chair pulled beside him, talking softly. The sharp one -- he had a name she remembered too, but the way he was slouched, studying the other two seemed to demand something more descriptive.

_ Like a snake watching a mouse from the shadows,  _ she thought. He started to chew on the leather bracelets wrapping his lower arm, hard eyes never leaving the pair across from him. Hopefully they’d already established themselves as solo musicians because with that dynamic this band was headed for a break-up soon. 

Adam reached over to grab his coffee, looking up at bared fangs. He said something too quiet for Blue to hear. 

She could hear Ronan’s answer though. A slow, rhythmic unfurling of curses, falling from lips twisted in a sneer one after the other to puddle around Adam’s feet like a river of black blood. Blue’s eyes widened at his fluency. She resisted the urge to take notes on the cafe’s order sheet. Adam’s head drooped to rest in his hands, tan fingers massaging his temples. His gaze flicked over Ronan’s shoulder to her. 

Blue blushed and busied herself cleaning coffee-splattered blender parts. He had blue eyes, a little too soft, a little too wide for a boy. A little too elegant for his borderline ratty clothes. 

A firm hand rapped on the counter, drawing her attention up to altogether different eyes. Confident and demanding, walking the edge of friendliness. 

“Hello,” Presidential Man Bun said. “I’ve a favor to ask.” 

“Refills are sixty cents,” she said. 

“No,” he said, smiling at her. “For after your shift.” 

Blue felt tension creep up her spine. She shot Man Bun a glare, shoving her cleaning towel into the base of the canister she held to clean the moisture out of the bottom. 

“My friend would like to know if you’ll come to our show. As his guest,” he added, as if it needed clarifying that she would be the friend’s guest, not his. 

“Oh? And you’re, what, the group messenger?” Her eyes flicked over to the group behind Gansey, wondering which had asked. 

“Not the angry one. Or the floating one,” he said, his eyes dancing with humor as he caught her look. “He’s quite the catch, I promise you. Come, join us.” 

“Now?”

“Now, tonight, whenever. Adam would love it.” 

“I’m working.” 

“Tonight?”

“Both.”

Gansey looked over her shoulder at her coworkers staffing the drive-through entrance. “Find cover?” 

“It’s not that--” Blue cut off, exasperated with herself for trying to reason with him. “I can’t,” she settled on, crossing her arms. 

“Then just take off. I’ll make sure you don’t lose out.” 

Her eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?” 

“What do you make? $14 an hour?”

Forget narrowing; Blue’s eyes grew into saucers. “You can’t be serious.” 

“More? I’d heard there were discussions for fast food unionization, but hadn’t realized it had been resolved.” 

“Oh my god.” Blue threw her towel at the counter, slamming the canister down next to it. She leaned in close to him, her fingers gripping the edge. “If you think I can be paid like some sex worker to come and--” 

Gansey’s hands shot up. “Whoa, whoa. Talking. Just talking. Perhaps it isn’t going to work. I’ll let Adam know.” 

“I can let Adam know anything  _ Adam  _ needs to know,” Blue said. 

Gansey peered at her for a moment. His hand dipped cautiously into his back pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. He slid it across the counter to her. 

“So you’ll come,” he said, unsure. 

Blue scowled at him, ignoring the ticket. He rubbed his thumb over his bottom lip, nodded, and went back to his table. She grabbed her order slip and scribbled down word for word what she’d heard the Snake say earlier. Sharp laughter rang out across the cafe. Ronan was doubled over with cold mirth, Noah pounding him on the back like he was trying to prevent choking. Gansey ran his hands through his hair, pieces of it falling out to frame his face. Adam was looking down at his lap. 

Blue exhaled slowly, watching a blush rise across Adam’s cheeks. She slid the ticket into her apron. 

The cafe door swung open and a suit walked in. Blue scratched out the menagerie of epithets she’d hastily written at the top and walked over to the register, her shallowest smile pasted on. She saw half a hundred suits before 9 A.M. daily, but this one was different. Most men knew they were wearing a suit. It changed how they walked; taller, prouder, a message of control and position. 

This man didn’t even seem to notice. He wore it the way she wore Maura’s pajamas, like it was two sizes two big and the most comfortable thing in the world. Like he didn’t look like he owned half of L.A. in a suit like that.

“Welcome to Page of Cups,” Blue said. 

The man nodded at her, talking into his cell phone. “--the twentieth then. Two point five. I don’t care what the cost is--” His eyes roamed the cafe, settling on the group at the back. “Call you back.” 

Blue waited, but apparently coffee was not why Suit had come to Page of Cups. 

He was a snake-handler. 

“Ronan,” he said, but it sounded more like  _ How dare you.  _

The harsh laughter stopped, Ronan’s eyes drawn slowly away from Adam to the suit. He hardened, stilling, everything poised for a strike except the fingers of his right hand slowly curling into a tight fist. 

“What the fuck are you doing here,” Ronan hissed. 

Suit slid his phone into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest. “I should be asking you the same thing. It’s the nineteenth, Ronan.” 

Ronan stood slowly, eyes and teeth wild promises of violence as he rose before the suit. Both in black, blue eyes, and pale skin, like alternate endings from a Choose Your Own Adventure novel. 

“I fucking dropped out, Declan.” 

“I’ve spoken with the Dean. He gave you until the twentieth to resubmit your thesis.” 

Blue would rather adopt Cerberus as a house pet than live with the consequences of the smile Ronan answered his brother with. 

Declan’s stance widened.

“Perhaps we could continue this at another location?” Gansey offered, glancing at Blue as he stood beside the pair. 

“You will never be more than a disappointment,” Declan said. “A lousy echo. I’m glad dad is dead just so he doesn’t have to see—“ 

Ronan punctuated his brother’s sentence for him with the sound of his fist smashing into his clean-shaven jaw. Declan spun with the impact, a slow motion cataclysm playing out in front of Blue as his hip slammed into her condiments table, sending half and half and sugar flying through the air. 

He spat, blood and spit mingling with the puddling cream, then threw himself at Ronan, suit be damned. He grabbed Ronan by the shoulders and slammed knee to chest. Ronan hit the table, coffee flew— his foot slashed out, nailing Declan in the midsection. Gansey grabbed one and Adam the other before Blue made it around the counter. 

Ronan thrashed in Gansey’s grip. 

Declan shrugged off Adam. He wiped his bleeding lip on the cuff of his suit, adjusting the sleeves to lay just above the edge of his dress shirt as he did. 

“Waste of time,” he said. He fixed Gansey with a cold stare. “We had a deal, Richard.” 

Gansey glared back, his jaw tight with the effort of holding Ronan back. Declan shrugged his suit smooth over his shoulders again, sparing a final sneer for Ronan before turning and leaving without a word. 

“Hey!” Blue called. “My table!” She stared after him in disbelief, slowly rotating to glare at the boys. “Out,” she growled. “All of you. Out.” 

Gansey, still holding Ronan. “At least allow us to pay--”

“ _ You _ will pay me for  _ nothing, _ ” she said. “And you will  _ never _ come back here again.” 

A frown flickered across Gansey’s face. Ronan tossed his shoulders, taking advantage of his friend’s pause to shove him off and stalk outside. Gansey followed immediately. Adam glanced at Blue, his mouth opening as if to say something, then snapped it shut and ran outside after the other pair. 

Noah skipped to her side, throwing the remains of his drink in the trash on the way. “I like you,” he whispered in her ear. She turned in surprise to find him heading toward the door already, an impish grin on his face. “Come see us play!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m the bassist.” He pretended to pick notes in the air as he pushed out through the door backwards. 

Blue felt as frazzled as her hair, staring at the wrecked table. She muttered under her breath, grabbed a tub for bussing tables, and walked over to the site of the wreck. At least they’d all had to-go cups; no broken glass. She started shoving trash and pieces of the table hardware in her tub, pausing to draw out a leather notebook from under the table carcass. She wiped the coffee-splattered cover off with her rag, glancing up at the counter. 

No waiting customers. Blue rocked back on her heels and flipped open the cover, taking advantage of the fact her coworkers would think she was cleaning still to sneak a peek before Gansey returned for it. 

Feverish but controlled cursive slanted across the pages, interrupted by sketches of birds and trees and strange slashing symbols. Blue ran her fingers over the words, the divots of his pen racing under her fingertips as his words filled her mind. 

_ Words — _

_ Unerring tools of destruction _

_ And I have come unequipped to disarm them  _

Chords were scribed above in another, more precise hand. A note in the margin in the same hand, suggesting a lyric as the bridge:

_ Black-painted poetry?  _

_ Something musical  _

_ When you swear at me? _

Blue closed the book gently, their lyrics already carving a place inside her. 

Maybe she could get coverage for the concert tonight. She had to get them to pay for damages, after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt / Comfort for Pynch week coming in next ch!! That's right folks, you are getting TWO TODAY.


	3. Kavinsky’s Love Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurt and Comfort (Part 1) for Pynch Week

Ronan pulled the cigarettes out of the pack one at a time, crumpling them in his fist and flinging them on the ground. “Piece of shit,” he murmured with each one, an incantation putting his older’s brother’s dipshit face on the white stick before he crumpled it.

He didn’t give one ripe fuck about his degree. The Dean was an old fart of a man with tentacles in all the right liberal campaigns, just Declan’s type. The type that made Ronan want to hurl. He spun the last cigarette across his knuckles, flicking it into the dark alley and pulled his drumsticks from his back pocket. Rhythm and noise and fire, the drums giving beneath his beat like lovers  _ that  _ was his future— not some tight ass classical musical composition degree or whatever the fuck Declan thought he needed to do to satisfy Niall Lynch’s legacy. 

Ronan bared his teeth at the darkness, letting a string of curses drip from his lips in rhythm with his flashing sticks. A more fitting tribute to their father than any whitewashed degree. 

It didn’t matter that he’d had the piece composed for months now, arpeggios falling in order like meteors the moment Adam Parrish walked into the recording studio for an audition. Music came easily to Ronan. Sometimes it seemed like he dreamed in music. Rumbling thunderous nightmares splitting his skull with the lines of bass cello and brass; eerie weightless dreams of flying over waterfalls waking him with the cry of violins. His favorites were dreams of trees, ancient whispering trees he sketched in Gansey’s notebook, trees that spoke to him in Latin and woodwinds. 

And then there were the dreams of Adam. 

Strange music, welling up in the depths and spilling over slowly into broken chords and melodies left hanging. Unresolved, aching, need leeching off the pages up at Ronan. 

Gansey liked to say that he was the voice of their band “Cabeswater,” Noah’s bass the spirit, Ronan’s drums the dreams and Adam the hands, deft and delicate as they raced from chord to chord on his guitar. 

Ronan thought he needed to find a way to add Adam’s eyes to Gansey’s mantra. And remove any coffee bar shrimps from the equation. He scowled; the stage door flung wide. 

“20 minutes til room reverberations and panic at the disco, Lynch!” 

Ronan’s scowl deepened. They needed to hire a manager with more booze and fewer words. Henry Cheng was outstanding at getting them gigs, though— and getting Gansey wrapped around his little finger. 

Ronan slid high decibel ear plugs in, leaning back against the wall. 

He felt more than heard the door slam and slipped one ear plug out. 

He felt someone slide into the space beside him. 

“Fucking managers.” Joseph Kavinsky lit a blunt next to him, grinning at Ronan around it. “Always wanking off to numbers and publicity and shit.” 

Ronan let a grin slice across his features.

Kavinsky held out his smoke. Ronan took it wordlessly, filling his lungs and releasing a pungent cloud in front of him. 

“Last chance,” Kavinsky said. 

Ronan rolled his head to look at him. 

“Stop sucking Dick and be a real drummer.”

Ronan answered him with a sneer. Kavinsky’s band had gone up against theirs in battle after battle. K could light a stage on fire— sometimes literally— but his fingering sucked. He always botched the shift from G to C. 

Parrish never did that. Ronan began to drum a rat-a-tat machine gun beat on the wall behind him, ignoring Kavinsky. 

Kavinsky shifted to face him, his tone holding an undercurrent of madness. “Drop the act, Lynch. You know where we could go. How big this could be.” 

Ronan barked a laugh, shifting his sticks to slide in his other ear plug as he replied. 

“It was never going to be you and me,” Ronan said, his brain filling the forced silence with Adam’s music. 

Kavinsky lurched off the wall, his mouth moving, hurling cannonballs of anger at Ronan. Beautifully silent, a moving picture of rage. Ronan started to drum again, beating out the force of Kavinsky, etching bits of wood on the wall as he slammed his sticks over and over in mockery of Kavinsky’s teeth gritting and stamping as he ranted. Then Kavinsky’s hand slipped into a pouch by his side, his mouth moving slowly enough Ronan could read the words off his lips—

_ You’re gonna bomb tonight Lynch  _

Everything happened in an instant. Kavinsky pulled out a glass bottle sloshing with liquid beneath a white fabric fuse and lit it. He tossed it in the air, turning and running for the cover of a dumpster. Ronan ripped open the heavy stage door and found himself staring straight at Adam Parrish.

Adam’s mouth moved —  _ Ro _ — and the sky exploded.

The blast threw him forward into Adam, shards of glass shredding shirt and skin. He wrapped himself around Adam as they fell, his body a shield of flesh and prayers. 

The heat behind cooled. Ronan braced himself over Adam where they’d fallen. 

“Parrish—“ He shook Adam’s shoulders, his ears ringing from the blast even through the ear plugs. A line of blood trickling from Adam’s ear was the only answer. He cursed, crawling around to Adam’s head, ripping out his ear plugs as he shouted for help.

Light, quick footfalls followed by a colorful blur. The girl from the coffee shop stuck her head in the stage door, her eyes screaming questions. She saw Adam on the floor and gasped, running to kneel by his side. 

“We need an ambulance,” she said, wiping the blood from Adam’s jaw with her vibrant orange mesh top. 

“No shit Sherlock,” Ronan growled. He crouched by Adam, not allowing himself to touch him. He bit down hard on his bracelets, gouging teeth marks along their edge. 

“Call a fucking ambulance,” the girl yelled at him. 

Ronan snapped. He shoved his arms under Adam, gathering him against his chest, a too heavy and limp burden. “You call the damn ambulance, I’m busy.” 

Blue’s jaw dropped. “Ass. Hole.” She dug in her purse and dialed anyways and in that moment Ronan decided she could stay. 

He jerked his head. “This way, midget.” 

Blue flipped him off but followed, reeling off details to the dispatcher. 

“I don’t…” Adam said. Ronan almost dropped him. 

“Shit. About time you woke up. Fucking pussy.” He muttered, holding Adam tighter as he kicked open the door to their dressing room. 

“No ambulance,” Adam said. “I’m fine.” 

“Like hell you are,” the feisty coffee lady retorted. “There’s blood coming from your ear.” 

“I said I’m fine. Put me down, asshole.” Adam pushed on Ronan, wincing. 

Ronan dropped him on the couch.

“Fuck me,” Adam said, shielding his eyes with his arm. Ronan didn’t answer. “What happened?” 

“Kavinsky.” 

Adam groaned. The girl nudged Ronan. 

“What do I do about...?” She shook her phone at him. Ronan ran his hand along his throat. Blue nodded, backing away to try and talk down the dispatcher. 

Ronan slouched on the floor beside Adam. “Fucking Russians.” 

“Fucking Lynches.” Adam said. Ronan flipped him off. “You’re bleeding,” Adam said, poking Ronan’s shoulder. 

Ronan hissed, swatting him away. His shoulders stung, pain lancing from sliced skin across their breadth. “I can still play.” 

“So can I,” Adam said, sitting up gingerly. 

Gansey slammed into the room. 

“What was that?” he asked, staring at Ronan. 

“Kavinsky,” Ronan said, jerking his head toward the back door. “Rat hid behind the dumpster.” Gansey’s gaze flicked to the blood on Adam’s cheek and back; Ronan nodded. A moment’s hesitation, then Gansey turned and ran for the back door. Ronan heard it slam against the brick wall. 

Adam shook his head, holding it cocked like he was listening for something. A frown flashed across his features. Ronan studied him, blue eyes locking with blue when Adam looked up. Worry disappeared behind two masks of indifference. 

“On in ten,” Adam muttered. He started to stand and staggered, held down by Ronan’s hand latched onto his wrist. 

“Sit yourself the fuck down,” Ronan growled. 

“I gotta—“ 

A tug. Adam sat. 

“You gotta fix me.” Ronan stood, stalking across the room to grab a band t-shirt and a bottle of whiskey. He tossed the bottle onto the couch beside Adam and ripping the t-shirt into long, ragged strips. He kicked Adam’s legs apart, pulling his own shirt off with a grimace and settling in between his feet. Adam’s hands hovered above the couch cushion, a portrait of uncertainty in both sides of Ronan’s peripheral vision. “Pull out the glass, splash of Ireland, wrap me like a fucking mummy. Get started, asshole, we only got ten minutes.” 

Adam’s fingers felt hot as brands on Ronan’s skin as they ghosted over the first cut. A hum from his chest, a tug and sharp pain as he pulled out a fragment of glass. “Jesus, Lynch, you need to go to the hospital.” 

“I go when you go,” Ronan muttered. 

Adam tugged another shard out, letting it fall with to the ground, a bloody bell ringing out on the cement floor. Another, higher up, and Ronan was losing the ability to tell whether the feeling of his fingers on bare skin or the shards of glass caused him more pain. 

A pause; the briefest of movements of Adam’s thumb that a more gentle man could mistake for a caress. Followed by searing fire as Adam poured the bottle of whiskey over Ronan’s back. 

“Fuck!” Ronan yelled, leaping to his feet. He dripped on the floor, whiskey running down his back, soaking the band of his briefs and beading on the leather waist of his pants. “Use a fucking rag, don’t baptize me!” 

Coffee shop girl walked in holding her nose. “Ugh,” she frowned. “You smell like a bar restroom.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comfort and the angst shall CONTINUE. HAR.


	4. Strange Constellations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The band’s first show with Blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the birbs, who are always telling me to do more Nothing, and for drea and Dan, who helped me remember TRC is some of my favorite nothing to do.

Ronan pulled the remnants of the bottle of whiskey from Adam’s hand. He swished the alcohol loudly between his teeth before swallowing, eyes fixed on Blue. “The fuck you want?” 

Her brow lowered as a dangerous smile spread across her face. Adam started to step forward, but the beat of his foot against the floor ricocheted up through his spine, setting his head alight with pain. He cursed under his breath, pressing his hand to his temple. 

Ronan turned, but it was Blue’s hands that caught Adam’s elbows. She guided him back to the couch, snatching up one of the strips Ronan had torn. She sniffed it, nodded, and used it to gently wipe at Adam’s neck. She was short, head not quite passing his shoulders, and it forced her to turn her face upwards as she worked. Adam swallowed. 

“Give him a shot of this and he’ll be fine,” Ronan said with a growl. He waved the whiskey at her. 

Blue flipped her middle finger at him, her eyes not leaving Adam. Adam’s left her to flick to Ronan. Ronan shrugged, throwing back another shot. He leaned against the poster-covered wall, a black stain covering pierced tongues and hot pink electric guitars. 

She said something, leaned in close against his left shoulder to speak directly in his ear. 

“What?” he asked.

Blue rolled her lip between her teeth. Adam wondered what she’d look like with a lip ring. 

“You really should go to the hospital,” she said, stepping back to look him in the eyes. 

Adam rubbed at the back of his neck. Ronan started to hum the opening chords to their song “Henrietta.” He pushed off the wall, leaving a dark smear of blood and liquor on the poster for a local trap band. “He’ll play first,” Ronan said, setting the whiskey down. “Right, Parrish?” 

There had never been an option. The band was his way out, and this show was their final ticket to the competition. He jerked his chin at Ronan. “Take care of that asshole. I’ll be fine.” 

Blue reached over and ripped Ronan toward the couch with surprising force. Her voice darkened with her scowl. She tugged at the makeshift bandage in her hands like it was a wire for strangling them both. “You listen and you listen good. Both of you idiots should be shoved in straightjackets for thinking you’re going to go play like this--” her hands flew as she spoke, trussing Ronan with bandages with rough, quick movements that shook his shoulders, “--but stupid is as asshole does. I don’t give a flying fuck what happens to you.” She turned on Adam now, cupping his chin with a gentleness in direct opposition to her tone. She tugged on the lamp, blinding him with the light. “But I’ll be damned if I let you collapse before I get to actually enjoy my night off.” 

Adam smiled. Even he could hear the slip of his southern accent when he replied. “Well then, ma’am, you’ll have to have VIP access.” 

“Ma’am me again and I’ll make sure you match the stupid one,” Blue said, gesturing at Ronan’s back. A matching smile was creeping across her features even as her hand fell from his chin. “You’ve got a concussion.” 

Ronan stood. She pushed him back down with one hand, tugging the lamp across Adam’s lamp to blind Ronan too. A sharp laugh from her lips as he cursed. “This one doesn’t. Too dense.” 

“Asshole,” Ronan said with a snarl. 

The dressing room door slammed open. “Couldn’t find him,” Gansey said, words and steps a rush. “You sure it was Kavinsky?” 

Ronan scowled.

“Alright,” Gansey said, raising his hands in defense. “Of course you are.” Blue’s presence hit him at once. He stood straighter and pulled a mint tic tac from his pocket. “Tic tac?” he asked her. 

She raised her eyebrow, waving him off. 

“Jane, was it?” 

Adam shot Gansey a look. Blue cut him off with mocking laughter. “Jane? What am I? A corpse? A nursery rhyme?” 

“No--”

Blue threw her hands in the air and turned to leave. His head throbbed in protest, but Adam managed to catch the bright sleeve of her shirt before she got out of reach. She shone with color in the dimly lit room, neon green and purple flashing life against the black Gansey and Ronan wore. “Stay,” he said quietly. “If you want to.”    


_ Because I think I want you to.  _

Blue’s hand hovered over his, a moment of indecision before she touched him, pushing his hand off. She bit her bottom lip. Her eyes flicked to his and only his before she nodded silently and stepped out of the room. 

Ronan whistled, the sound cutting the silence more lewdly than a curse. 

“Alright then, that’s settled,” Gansey said, his hands shoved in his pockets. 

A whistle matching Ronan’s but several pitches higher rang out from the door. “Do we have plans for the fair lady?”  _ Cabeswater _ ’s manager Henry Cheng bounced on his heels, blocking the exit. “Roadie? Obsessive fan? City fling?” 

“Audience,” Adam said.   
  


“Barista,” Gansey said.

“Fuck off,” Ronan said. 

“Alley oop, one in all and all in one,” Henry said, pointing over his shoulder. “It’s show time!” 

Adam followed him out, his head held carefully still. He grabbed his guitar, slinging the strap up and over his shoulder as Henry laid his hand on Blue’s shoulder, guiding her to a spot just out of sight in the wings. 

The stage pulsed with purple light. Adam grimaced, shielding his eyes with his hand. Gansey walked past, rolling his shoulders. The audience was a faceless humming noise in the darkness, like thousands of bees. Gansey wrapped his hand around a mic, an electronic Excalibur for their king. 

Gansey stood just outside the reach of the lights. Ronan shoved a black cap down on Adam’s head, tugging it low. Adam let his hand drop. 

The crowd exploded at the sound of Gansey’s voice. 

“Time for a strange constellation,” he said, his voice a low rumble. 

Noah appeared by his side, bass held jauntily aloft like a bard’s fiddle. He kicked Gansey’s backside, throwing him with a stumble turned run into the madness of center stage, leaping out after him. His grin shone brighter than the lights; he reached up and started the bass riff with the guitar still aloft, spinning wildly as he skipped to his stage mark. 

Ronan nudged Adam in the ribs. They walked out side by side. Ronan kicked at his bass drum, tumbling his sticks down the toms in a freewheeling thunder building off Noah’s rhythm. 

Adam strode to Gansey’s side. A look passed between them; Gansey unable to not silently ask yet again if he could and Adam giving his best “fuck off” glare in return. 

A smile. A nod. Gansey began to sing. 

Adam’s eyes fell to his guitar. His fingers took Gansey’s words and turned them to fire and sound, the widening chasm of chords Ronan had thrown at him a week ago. 

“Can you handle this?” Ronan had said. 

Adam scanned the paper. “A drunk could handle this.” 

Ronan smirked. “Good,” he’d said. Adam could feel his eyes on him even now. The music wound between them, an eerie blend of flamenco and rock pouring from Adam’s hands. He needed this band as his ticket out of town, more than he needed anything in his life. 

But he’d be damned if he’d let Ronan Lynch write a song for any other guitarist. The music ate at him. Gansey sang of kings falling before a star, of a woman made of light and a constellation of nightmares. The audience screamed, a black mass of gaping holes shaped like eyes and mouths pressing against the stage. Adam’s head was splitting with the noise. Gansey leaned forward, touching fingertips.

The lights turned him to quicksilver, a silver god stretching his hand out over his worshippers. 

They shifted songs without pausing, Ronan’s beat leading the way. He smashed a cymbal just as Gansey started to sing again, words pouring low and fast. 

Adam heard Blue shout from the wings. She danced with Henry, her phone aloft and casting a pale glow over their pair. He grit his teeth, forcing his eyes wide and his fingers down the lightning shifts in chords. 

Three songs left. Noah was leaping, his shirt twirling over his head. He pretended to throw it at the crowd then throw it at Ronan instead. Ronan ripped it off, not missing a beat. 

Two songs. Adam’s stomach churned. He felt cold sweat trickling down his back as he struggled to focus on the rhythm. Slower song; Gansey walked to his side, gripping his shoulder for a moment. 

“I’m not interested in other people’s fortunes,” he sang, his voice just above a whisper. “I want to go out and find my own.” 

Adam forced a smile, managing to hit the riffs of the guitar solo by sheer muscle memory as Gansey swayed beside him. 

One song. 

The noises had merged into one long toneless scream, lodging fiery hot in the side of Adam’s head. He thought he could see his fingers moving, though it could also be flesh colored spiders. The room was hot as ice. 

Firm hands grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him off stage. Adam cursed, pushing at his assailant. “Not done—“

“Fuck that we are,” Ronan said harshly. “Fucking smashed my drumstick through the snare. We’re fucking done asshole, can’t play without drums.” 

They were outside, somehow. Cold night air, thankful gulps. Adam braced himself on the brick alley wall and vomited. 

“We’ve got to get to a hospital.” The pretty barista was here still. Blue. Jane. Adam wondered whether she’d liked Gansey’s voice. 

“Fucking genius,” Ronan cursed. “Let him finish hurling.” 

“I’m fine,” Adam said. He’d gotten through worse. “Just need sleep.” 

“You fucking fall asleep Parrish and I will punch the hearing back into you.” 

Adam raised his hand in defeat. Pulled the hat down farther over his eyes. Let Blue and Ronan take him wherever they wanted to go. 


	5. What Freakabass Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Gangsey starts to find each other and Blue gets propositioned again.
> 
> Also the one time Adam sleeps.

Blood, whiskey, and vomit. 

Not the way Blue Sargent imagined a first date with the quiet guitarist going. She glanced sideways at the drummer. The night would fit perfectly on a Tinder profile for that one. 

Blue swiped left. 

The movement caught his attention, fixing eyes that she would hesitate to describe as blue on her. Ice. The kind of ice that willed itself into a sideways icicle so it could impale passerby. Blue leaned her chin on her fist, staring back. “Your turn.” She nodded toward the reception desk.

Ronan’s jaw shifted. 

Blue crossed her arms. “Whiskey and t shirts are not going to prevent infection. Don’t be an idiot.” 

His only reply was a single raised finger and the shift of his gaze to the double doors at the end of the hallway. 

“You are incredibly immature. It’s not badass to ignore your body--” 

A cleared throat interrupted her. Gansey stood before them, holding a carrier full of coffees. “Any news?” He held one out to her. 

She took a sip; grimaced. It was disgustingly sweet, the kind of coffee made from water stirred into powder. Gansey ran his teeth over his lip, his hand held out to take the coffee back from her. She hesitated--a small shrug of apology--handed it back. Ronan ignored him, drawing out a small silver flask from his back pocket. 

Blue hissed at him in disapproval. Gansey seemed to not notice, focused more on the rejected coffee cups filling the cardboard tray. 

“Noah will want one,” she said, remembering the bassist’s order at Page of Cups Cafe. Gansey brightened, pulling a cup out and setting the other four on the chair beside her. He took a sip. His eyes widened. 

“He would indeed,” he said, licking his lips. Blue smirked. “Ronan,” Gansey continued, holding the coffee without any clear intention to ever put it near his mouth again. “We should get you looked at while we wait.” 

Ronan stood, the movement like the unsheathing of a knife. Hard angles held taut before Gansey, hands in pockets and lips pulled straight. “I’m fine,” he said. Each word cut the air, pulling the clustered hospital hallway even tighter around their group. 

The double doors flew open with a bang. 

“Five hundreds dollars earned for the set,” Henry Cheng said. “Sans three for hospital lodging, one for merch, one for adverts, and two for a new snare and a new rear stage entrance and we are jolly well digging a dirt hole right into the basement of this establishment.” He sauntered up to them, his hair arranged in spikes as gloriously high as Blue’s eyebrows as she listened to his rant. There was no venom to his words, the lilt one of practiced enthusiasm. Like an actor in a modern version of Shakespeare, there was something a little too obviously handpicked about the words used. 

“He’s fine,” Henry continued, his eyes dancing merrily over the shape of Ronan’s fist raised and ready. “You can go in and see him.” 

The drummer shoved past Henry, leaving a string of muttered expletives in his wake. Gansey paused long enough to offer an unclaimed coffee to Henry, then hurried after. 

Henry took a sip of the coffee. Blue watched herself in the reflection from the oversized frames perched in front of his spiked hair like some glittering crystal on the edge of a stalagmite field. 

“I have a proposition for you,” he said. Her face in his glasses soured, the edges of her mouth dragging downward. 

“If you pull a Gansey and try to buy me--”

Henry burst into laughter. Coffee sloshed out the hole in his cup lid. He slurped the droplets up, giggling. “He did, did he? He paid you to come?” 

“No, I wouldn’t let him.” 

He studied her over the white plastic rim. “Then why did you, Miss Sargent?” 

Blue considered her words carefully. The conversation felt like walking a tightrope, and she wasn’t sure yet if she would rather finish the trick or let herself fall down into the safety net. “Someone else asked nicely.” 

Henry’s smile widened. Blue’s eyes flicked over his shoulder to the doors where the other two had disappeared. She set her shoulders.  
  
“Noah,” they said in unison. 

“Ah-hah!” Henry clapped his hands. He pulled an oversized phone out of his pocket. Madonna peeked out from between his fingers as he scrolled, her pointy-boob glory fully covering the back of his case. “That makes this much easier.” He turned the phone screen to her. 

“That’s my account,” she said, watching the Live she posted from last night play on his screen, hearts and likes flowing steadily over the view of Gansey’s back. He sang, bouncing on his heels to the rhythm, voice filling the hospital hallway once more. Her angle shifted; Adam filled the screen for a moment, a dark stain still smudged just beneath his ear. Blue winced. 

“And it has over thirty thousand views in under twelve hours,” Henry said. “We have never gone viral like this before.” 

“I--” Blue paused as the screen shifted again. Ronan glared at her from behind his citadel of cymbals. “Who runs your social media?” 

Henry tapped the screen, pointing beyond Ronan to the wispy boy freewheeling at the side of the stage. Blue pursed her lips, holding back a giggle. “Oh.” 

A few taps and Henry brought up their band page, Mostly photographs, all tilted at odd angles. One almost looked like it was taken while the photographer was freefalling out a window. Blue’s eyebrows knit, tapping to enlarge the series. “There’s long time gaps between posts.” 

Henry nodded, his face still covered with a bright smile. “Noah’s an exceptional musician, and the most dedicated band member--he’s been in it with Gansey from the beginning, before Gansey even knew what he was doing--but he has a rather horrific tendency to suddenly ghost on social media.” 

Blue tapped her chin. “Not the best practice for staying in the algorithms.” 

“Indeed,” Henry said. “Which is why I would like to offer you the position. Paid.”

Blue’s eyes shot to his. “But Noah--”

“Was never paid.” Henry shook the phone. “This is just fun and games for him, games he’ll continue to play. I’d like you to come along and--how to phrase it--augment our presence.” 

“Augment,” Blue said, the word feeling somewhat ugly as it forced its way across her tongue. “I’m not just some magnifying tool that you can use and discard.”  
  


“Good gracious, no,” Henry said. He waved his hand in the air between them, his fingers long and delicate. “More of a mirror, if we must have a glass metaphor. Taking what is a gift of your own and reflecting us with it, larger than we were before.” 

A ribbon hung loose from her elbow; Blue pushed it through a gap in the sweater, snaking the pink fabric in and out until it lay like a gentle wave slipping up the length of her loose knit shirt. Henry waited, for once someone willing to not fill silence with words. 

“What’s the pay? Contract length?” 

His hands clapped together, smacking against the phone. A sharply pointed finger. “Sargent! Captain, my captain! Let us discuss.” 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

Noah fiddled with the tuner on his phone, making low and high pitched droning noises and watching the needle flick back and forth trying to pin down his pitch. He was draped over the bottom of Adam’s bed like an afghan, the same position he’d been in since walking in just behind Henry. The nurses had chased Ronan and Gansey out immediately, had pulled Henry aside to get emergency contact numbers, and had simply worked around Noah. 

“Czerny, that’s all there is,” he said, shifting pitch from a low E to a high C as he spoke. The needle tracked his modulations, diving down into the red. Noah smiled. 

The door opened, slamming against the wall. Ronan fired himself into the room, always a loaded gun. Noah made a kissy face at him. “He’s in better shape than your snare.” High F to low G. “I think.” 

Ronan stood just out of Noah’s view, forcing him to crane his neck back at an unnatural angle. Gansey stepped around him, sitting on the bed beside Adam. The mattress dipped and recovered. “Gansey,” Noah said, just to watch the arrow pin itself to the middle of the green.

“Have they given him anything?” Gansey handed Noah a coffee.

“One gave him their phone number,” Noah offered. “The other, drugs. I think.” He waved at Adam, watching Ronan upside-down. Low A to high D. “Not a coma. Just asleep.” Ronan got smaller somehow. 

Noah took a sip of coffee, his grin widening at the taste closer to chocolate milkshake mixed with maple syrup. He reached over and tapped Gansey’s ear. “Gonna be deaf there,” he said, his voice soft and even. The tuner stayed steady, arrow green. He watched their lead singer. 

Gansey’s hand settled on the railing of the bed. The other pulled out a box of Tic Tacs and shook it gently, sliding two into his mouth. 

“Fuck that,” Ronan said. 

“He can still play,” Gansey said. His voice was steady, a lower pitch than usual that dragged the tuner arrow down toward yellow. 

“Of course he can play,” Ronan said. “He could still fucking play if he was deaf. Asshole can feel music, like it’s inside him.” The arrow flicked into the red and back, a merry dance of traffic light color. 

Noah hummed, holding it green for a moment. “It’s his hands,” he said softly. “The music has his hands.” 

“What freakabass said,” Ronan sniped. 

Gansey shot a disapproving look at Ronan. His words smelled like mint. “Is anyone disagreeing? Calm down, Lynch. He’s lead guitar and will always be lead guitar. Cabeswater wouldn’t be Cabeswater without Adam Parrish.” 

“Fucking magician,” Ronan muttered. He kicked the bed once, then turned and left. 

Noah rolled over onto his stomach, poking Adam in the foot. Adam stirred, his eyes opening slightly. “Sorry--” he said, the word slurred with sleep. “‘S tired.” 

Gansey patted the bed. Noah held up his phone before either could speak again, the purple hues of Blue’s video from last night dancing over the white sheets. “Your girlfriend’s going to make us famous,” he said to both of them and neither of them. 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Adam said.

“Is that Jane?” Gansey said. 

Blue’s face filled the screen for a moment before the video turned back around to their set. Noah nodded, tapping the heart button over and over, flooding the screen with red. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe oh what fun it is to weave the magic of Maggie's characters into a new world. Thank you for the encouragement--comments and kudos are just SO FUN to get. Like grabbing a venti iced coffee and actually having time to sit and drink it in the sun, that kind of fun! 
> 
> Spilled flour from chocolate cookies while writing this bc I can't ever do just one thing. BUT KEYBOARD IS FINE! WAHOO!


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